


Like We're Living In A Battleground

by Meduseld



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Angst, Boys In Love, Brief mention of period typical homophobia, First Time, M/M, Porn with Feelings, With war as a background, lots and lots of rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-03 03:31:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15810429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meduseld/pseuds/Meduseld
Summary: How it happened, that first time between them.





	Like We're Living In A Battleground

The rain had been coming down steadily for a week now and they were all going mad.

The only benefit of it being impossible to fly meant that the enemy had the same problem, but after the third day it was a cold comfort. Sleep was getting harder and harder to come by, as if every night the drops fell harder on the thin tin roofs of their small barrack sheds. Two to each, and everything inside damp now, with cold concrete floors and rickety steps turned into slick death traps.

Even the small pleasure of a good smoke had turned into a huddled, miserable fight against the wet air, shoulder to shoulder with everyone else under narrow strips of roofing. But at least being outside meant being away from the smell, like a thousand wet dogs hiding under dirty, half-burnt furniture.

That was the only silver lining after they’d been banned from smoking inside, given that the petrol, ammo and other supplies had been moved to the driest parts of the makeshift base possible.

They’d scrambled to build it, forgetting the realities English weather, which certainly hadn’t forgotten them.

It was strange to think how it had been fine for a day or two, the reprieve from flights they might not come back from, or bombers streaking over the Channel. But then the boredom had set in, then the prickly tension, then the fights.

The only one that seems above it all is Fortis Leader, which is what everyone calls him instead of trying to untangle the unruly mess of Irish that makes up his last name, for all that he’s an East London boy. He’s got Traveller blood, it seems, or his father did, he tells Farrier on one of those endless grey afternoons, surrounded by surly mumbling of the others, drumming his fingers on the tabletop to keep them from searching for a cigarette.

On base, Fortis is one of the old dogs, a member of the distinguished few that are married, most with children. The rest of them are young, dumb, stars in their eyes.

Farrier’s in the middle, somewhere.

There’s no one waiting for him at home. Or even a home, really.

He and his mother had run from his father and his fists a long time gone. They’d bounced all around London, doing this and that to get by until the rot inside of her had finished putting her in the ground.

Farrier had been alone since then, carrying her name instead of his father’s after Thomas, a way to keep part of her with him.

He’d been first in line to sign up when the war came, more out of having something to do and three squares a day to show for it than any care for the cause itself.

It’s better, he thinks, than being one of the green-gillled lads that wear their fingers to the bone writing home every day and treating their meager stash of photos with near religious devotion.

Collins is somewhere in the middle, from what he knows.

He doesn’t talk much about home or family, but he writes. Not like the others do, but write he does. More lately, the biggest tell that his nerves are fraying as badly as the others.

It’s what he’s doing, pragmatic enough to stay half hidden behind Farrier’s bulk and Fortis’ long legs, bent like a giant stork’s, when the fight breaks out. It’s been happening more and more lately, everyone damp and annoyed and restless. There’s never a reason for it, or at least a good one, nothing but an outlet.

But this time the words flung around the crowded room are the words Farrier’s been trained by the world to keep his ears out and fists ready for. That ones that are always, no matter what the shouter thinks, aimed at _him_.

The fact that for a moment, Collins’ eyes flick to his, blue and narrowed, only makes it worse.

But he can’t move, can’t be the one to react. He’s learned that lesson the hard way.

Next to him, Fortis sighs like an annoyed school master. He might be, in the world beyond the base and the war. He hasn’t said and Farrier hasn’t asked.

They wade into it and pull the men apart, Collins a comforting shadow behind them, ready to put his hands into the fire, too. It’s the way they are in the air, Farrier and Fortis take the lead and Collins darts in between, filling up the gaps.

He’s not a boy, Collins. And Farrier can’t pass off his affection for him as something fatherly, brotherly.

There’ll be a point where he’ll be found out, one way or the other. Either he won’t be able to explain it all away as attention and casual touches born of friendly concern, or maybe, well. He doesn’t let himself think about the other ways in which Collins might find him out.

“Doaty bawbags” Collins mumbles to himself when they finally get the mess sorted and Farrier’s lips twitch quickly in the ghost of smile.

Collins is behind him but somehow Farrier knows he knows, said it partly to get that exact reaction.

Underneath, though, there’s a thread of real anger there too, a worrying rage. The thought of it boliling over, of those words on Collins’ lips make him nauseous in a way he hasn’t been since the first time he stepped into an aircraft.

But Farrier won’t, can’t, say anything. He’s playing the fool, he’s aware, but he’s willing to do that and more for Collins.

Especially now, with the rain making it so easy to be there, to wrap a hand around his elbow to keep him from slipping. He's always been gone on blonds.

They play idle rounds of cards for a while, the cardboard warped from the damp and too many hands. But it’s as grim as the weather outside and Fortis sighs, and says he’ll head to bed.

Farrier and Collins’ eyes meet, like a thunderclap, and they move to follow.

The slog home is as miserable as always, a half skipping run under hard rain, the choice being between speed and safety through the wet mud. They’ve got the worst of it, quartered at the very end of the long line of rickety sheds, the stretch the boys have dubbed Neverland.

The two of them burst through the door the way they always do, bolting and shivering, wrestling with the wind pushing at the flimsy door and their own cold, wet hands.

Farrier is soaked to the skin and Collins isn’t much better.

It doesn’t help how close they are in the tiny space, the thin strip between their cots so small that they could reach across and touch hands in the night, if they wanted.

He shakes the thought away. They’re used to it by now, or they pretend to be, well versed in the quick motions to dress and undress and redress and somehow manage not to glimpse each other.

But no matter how carefully they hang their clothes on the far wall they won’t be fully dry by morning and if the downpour doesn’t let up soon they’ll soon be dripping all day, Collins mumbles to himself.

Farrier carefully doesn’t answer, unwilling to stoke that agitation.

He just needs some sleep.

They both do.

That’s easier to think than to do, cold under thin sheets and the incessant sound of the rain, dropping heavy on the tin roof. Like a thousand drumming nails, or hailing bullets.

Collins keeps shifting on his cot, small sounds that should be imperceptible in the din, but Farrier’s been hyper attuned to him from the first time he pulled off his flying gear to show ruffled blond hair and a crooked smile.

In the dark, Collins sighs deep in his chest and swings his legs out of bed. Farrier’s arms break out in sympathetic goose skin. He knows how cold the floor can get. That’s when the air changes. It’s like it gets heavy, or heavier anyway. Charged, like lightning’s coming down.

Collins doesn’t move, absolutely still except for his breathing in the dark.

And just like that Farrier’s the first to break.

“If you’ve got to piss just do it off the steps. No sense going out in this” he says, staring at the far wall. Somewhere that seems far away, Collins sucks in an uneven gasp of air like he’s been hurt.

Then he was moving, crossing the small, endless gap between them.

Collins didn't say a single word before he lifted the thin sheet and slid into Farrier’s cot.

"Please" he whispered, suddenly the only thing Farrier could hear, even over the steady drone of the rain that had refused to stop above them. "Please, I can't anymore, God, just-" he said as Farrier pressed their foreheads together and whispered “ _Hush_ ” right over his lips.

Their legs moved together, Collins’ cold and smooth against the heat of Farrier’s thicker, heavier ones. It’s easy for him to reach down, between those slim thighs, to grip the truest sign of Collin’s secret, beating heart.

Farrier can’t see it in the dark, but he’s happy enough with the glimpse of Collins’ eyes narrowing and throat swallowing. He’s had enough experience to tell, sight unseen, that it’s flushed dark red, curved, blood-hot to the touch. With a couple strokes, Collins is mewling against his throat, but there’s something too restless about it.

Farrier’s other hand starts to slide against Collins’ stomach, taught and lovely, arching up to meet his touch.

But that just seems to make him more agitated, getting tense where he should be loose, unknotted where he should be getting tighter.

He makes another noise, deeper in his throat, and Farrier’s lips move on their own to cover his, honed over the years to swallow down the sound. Not that it matters. With the fall of the rain they could scream and no one would be the wiser, not even the blokes in the next flimsy shed.

Collins moans into it, warm and wet, tasting sweet, but his struggling gets worse, nails skating over the parts of Farrier he can reach like he can’t whether to pull him in or push him away.

And that’s when he knows what the trouble is.

Farrier angles his hips properly, dropping his whole weight onto the solid planes above the spread space between Collins’ legs. There’s a moment of perfect alignment, heat on heat on _heat_ , and it feels like Farrier’s brain is slipping out of his ears because all he can manage is a groan.

But it does the job, says what he wants to say: _yes, it’s not just you, I want this too_. Collins pulls him close now, eager and openly undone, rocking against Farrier with abandon.

He hisses, the throbbing heat between his legs a delicious ache, starting to grow slick. His hand moves on its own, creeping down to join the first. It’s necessary, to cover every bit of exposed skin, and there’s some smug voice in the back of his skull that notes that he’s much thicker than Collins, for all that he’s longer.

It’s so good though, the way their skin meets, like they were made for each other, like this is something he doesn’t even have words for. He takes them fully in hand, enjoying the shiver that runs through every line of his partner’s body at the calluses on his palms.

He rubs his thumbs over them before pressing in with his nails the way he likes, and apparently Collins does too from the way his hand tightens in what little he can grab of Farrier’s hair.

The other digs into his shoulder, heavy on Collins’ chest because he has no leverage with his hands busy. His lips slide over Collins’ neck, the skin softer than he’d imagined, doing his best not to give in to the urge to bite. “Oh, love –he can hear himself whisper– you don’t know what you do to me”.

It’s the wrong thing to say apparently, because suddenly both of Collins’ hands are pulling his head up, his scalp singing with pain, to meet wild blue eyes and blown pupils searching his own with a sort of manic intensity. He's frantic enough to make Farrier’s hands and hips stop, despite the fact that it still feels so incredibly _good_ , nothing like with anyone that can before.

Then Collins’ crushes their lips together, and he was wrong because this is better, this is like an endless free fall that will never end with the crash of broken bones on the ground.

His hands move away from the heat pooling between them, enjoying exploring Collins’ thighs as they rock together in perfect harmony. _They must be so pale_ he thinks, and suddenly he’s angry, because that won’t change. They’ll never be able to see each other in perfect light or lie naked side by side, without a hint of shame. It can only ever be this, a crash of half dressed bodies in the dark, worried about the sounds they make even in the middle of a storm.

He thrusts harder and Collins keens in his ear, head tossed back far enough that Farrier can lick at his throat, overly aware that he can’t leave marks. His hands tighten on Collins’ hips, driving him with singular intensity.

He wants it to be good.

He wants it to be incredible. He wants it to be the night Collins dreams of, years and years from now, settled up in some warm bed a million miles away.

His mouth is hot and wet on Farrier’s face, feeling everywhere at once, and then his legs come up around Farrier’s middle. He’s right on the edge and Farrier gleefully shoves him off, digging his teeth into his lower lip so deeply he tastes blood. A mark placed on himself, to remember this by.

Collins shudders and stills, his release searingly hot between them, smiling dreamily up as Farrier finishes, almost as an afterthought.

They’ve made a mess, and a hard one to hide, but Farrier can’t make himself feel sorry, not with the way Collins is nuzzling at him like an affectionate cat, laving tiny kitten licks on Farrier’s raw lip. Even in the dark he can see the flush still on his cheeks and the way his lips pull up in a dazed smile.

He’ll remember this, for as long as he lives. Which might not be too long, all things considered.

Farrier ducks his head down, pressing their foreheads together, letting his eyes close. Just for a beat, then two, then three.

“You should get to bed” he says, trying for gruff and landing on fond. Pressed this close he can see the bleary confusion in Collins’ eyes before he realizes what it is that Farrier means.

“Right” he whispers back, so far gone his accent is near unintelligible even on a single word. Farrier’s heart aches from it.

He still moves back, off him, even when all he wants to do is press close and breath in the scent of his skin. He licks at his lip instead, relishing the sting of the bite as the sheets lift.

Collins moves fast, a pale streak across the narrow gap between their cots. It must be stone cold by now, he realizes, and guilt gathers like a fist in his gut.

“‘M sorry” Collins whispers across the gap, sounding on the edge of tears, his back to Farrier.

He was wrong.

It’s not cold. It’s fucking  _freezing_ , but his legs are out from under the covers before he’s even fully formed the thought.

Kneeling in the dark, he runs a knuckle down Collins’ spine, willing it to unwind. “Hush” he whispers again, pressing his lips to the downy hair at the back of Collins’ neck. He smells like something wild, free, untouched by anyone’s hands. By the third pass down his back, Collins’ breath is the deep and steady one of all sleepers.

He stays there for a moment, because it strikes him suddenly that for all he knows Collins’ given name is Finlay, it still somehow felt to intimate to use.

But the cold beats out the uncertainty.

Farrier’s knees scream as he gets up, away from the hard floor and back into his ruined bed. It also smells like Collins, but differently, the earthy musk of what they did together. That’s a comfort, in it’s own way. Proof, at least. He tries to hold on to the thought, to the sense memory, but his eyes droop shut too soon.

His breath matches Collins’.

They both sleep like the dead throughout the night, too deep to hear the storm abating.

It’s gone by the time the morning dawns, pink and silent, on a new day.

**Author's Note:**

> Some answers to questions no one asked: I have no idea if my description of their base is accurate. Probably not. 
> 
> The title is from The Rolling Stones’  [ _ Rain Fall Down  _ ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SvvJbxl4Vmk) which is thematically appropriate, tbh. Fortis leader is played by Michael Caine of course, and I almost used Canfield for his character name like everyone else, but then I found that he has some  [ Irish Traveller ancestry  ](https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/1374495/My-name-is-Sir-Maurice-says-Caine.html) and it seemed more fun this way. 
> 
> If Farrier’s backstory seems oddly familiar it’s because I stole it from Tom Hardy’s character in  [ Warrior ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Warrior_\(2011_film\)) . My backstory for Collins in this is also nicked from one of Jack Lowden’s roles but it got cut for time so hmu if you wanna hear it. 
> 
> If you want to know what Collins called those guys, I got it from  [ looking up Scottish insults ](https://www.pri.org/stories/2014-09-18/glossary-scottish-insults) (apologies to any actual Scots if it sounds like nonsense instead). 
> 
> I also agonized for like an hour whether it was likelier to be nicknamed ‘Neverland’ or ‘Never Never Land’ but  [ went with the wiki article title. ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neverland)
> 
> And to conclude: an internet penny for whoever catches the Saving Private Ryan reference I made in this fic. 


End file.
